


look down.

by maledictus



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), and steve helps him find himself again, but indirectly, in which bucky loses himself, slightly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-11
Updated: 2017-12-11
Packaged: 2019-02-13 10:34:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12982206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maledictus/pseuds/maledictus
Summary: If you lose yourself, all you have to do is look down.Steve had been right. Bucky will never admit it to his face.





	look down.

**Author's Note:**

> someone posed to me a challenge: write a stucky / starbucks fic that conveys all the love and devotion they have to one another without having any sex at all.
> 
> challenge accepted.

His own footsteps feel artificial, autonomous, out of his control. His head is throbbing; his breath comes in ragged gasps; his eyes burn from exposure to the wind and snow; his fingers clutch tightly at the chain hanging loosely from his neck.

He knows where he is, but he doesn't know why. He must have seen these streets in a dream. His feet feel as though they've chewed up this concrete for decades; his fingers remember the roughness of the trademark Brooklyn brownstone bricks. Even the varnished wood of the nondescript apartment door feels familiar as his knuckles rap against it. The man on the other side, however, is a complete stranger to him.

What is he doing in this place he's never been but clearly remembers? He's traveled thousands of miles for longer than he can remember just to be here, but why? The man is looking him up and down, clearly concerned about this disaster of a human being standing in his doorway; his gaze becomes particularly worried when it lands on the clenched fist of his metallic arm.

His head spins. His heart is pounding; his ears are ringing.

"Is this 569 Leaman Place?"

The man nods, and for some unexplainable reason, he suddenly feels safe, like he can lay down all his burdens and stop struggling. He sways on his feet, and the man reaches out to catch him. Before he blacks out, he's aware of the worried voices of a woman and child coming to meet him.

—————

The first thing he realizes when he comes to is that he's warm; he can feel the weight of many blankets stacked on top of him. There's the smell of coffee in the air — freshly brewed, not that bitter powdered shit from Vladivostok. More important than what he _can_ smell is what he _can't_ : his blood- and sweat-stained coat is gone, he realizes with a start, and instinctively, he reaches for his neck and the chain he hopes is there.

He breathes a sigh of relief when he feels the cool chain hanging loosely from his skin.

Satisfied, he lifts his head with some effort, gazing around the modestly decorated and thoroughly unfamiliar apartment. He's on the couch, almost drowning in blankets, and curled up at his feet is a sizable black and tan german shepherd; his gaze lands on the dog and, realizing it's been noticed, it pricks up its ears and stands, approaching to bathe his scruffy face in kisses.

"Sage, off!"

It's the man's voice. Obediently, the dog stops its assault and returns to its previous spot at his feet. The man apologizes; he waves it away. He likes dogs.

"I'm the one who should be apologizing." He doesn't recognize his own voice. It's hoarse, rough from the winter wind, and from screaming. "I don't know what I'm doing here, or how I got here, or-"

The man, clearly overwhelmed, raises a hand to stop him. Like a good little soldier, he immediately goes quiet, biting off the end of his sentence like it could sustain him.

"Take it easy. Let's just start with your name, son."

He furrows his brows. He doesn't know his name. _Fuck, he doesn't know his name._ His mismatched fingers fumble for the chain, follow it to its apex in the center of his chest; the tags there clink together as he lifts them up to read the information etched into them.

_James Buchanan Barnes._

He recites it aloud, but it doesn't feel right on his lips. That can't be his name; there's no way in hell that's his name. It feels wrong, like he's never been called that a day in his life. But there's another name on the second tag, one that resonates with him from his brain down to his bones.

"My name is-"

* * *

"Good morning, Bucky."

He's vaguely aware that the all too familiar voice in the distance is speaking to him. He rolls over with a groan, burying his face in the pillow to block out the sudden light of the curtains being pulled back.

"What's so good about it?"

He hears Steve chuckle fondly, feels the bed shift beneath his impressive weight as he sits beside his sleepy partner. _Musclebound bastard._ Not that he's any better. For awhile, there's silence, comfortable and companionable; when Steve speaks, it's in a quiet but sharp voice.

"Three things."

The silence is much more tense now. Steve's all business, one hundred and ten percent Captain America and only thirty percent the friend Bucky knows him to be; Bucky doesn't have to see him to know he's serious. He furrows his brows in a mixture of slight irritation and deep concentration.

"You were an art major at Auburndale; your favorite medium was charcoal. You were always so eager to sketch me: you'd ask me every day when I got back from work."

The corners of his chapped lips twitch upwards into a smile as he envisions his scrawny roommate sitting at the table, fingers stained black with charcoal, eyes shining, lips set into a hopeful grin as he begged his tired friend to model for him. _'C'mon, Buck: just for a few minutes?'_

He never could say no to that obnoxious smile.

Beside him, he feels Steve shift; he's silent, but Bucky knows he's nodding for him to go on. He concentrates further, pushing the image of Steve's happy face out of his mind and letting another memory swim sluggishly into view.

"We went to see The Wizard of Oz in theaters; tickets cost twenty three cents. Twenty three cents, Rogers."

"Anybody with access to Google knows that, Buck."

Steve sounds unimpressed. Bucky grins into the pillow.

"Not just anybody could know that you were terrified of the flying monkeys. When they showed up, you squeezed my hand so tight I thought it was gonna pop off."

Dry humor at his own expense gets him through his days. He hears Steve give a good-natured and somewhat impressed huff of breath. He lets go of the memory of Dorothy and Steve being terrorized and reaches deeper, sloshing through a hodgepodge of images and sounds in search of something that will really knock Steve's socks off. He screws up his face and thinks, and thinks, and thinks.

And then, it comes to him.

"Remember when I taught you how to dance? I spent four bucks on that Glenn Miller set and played it on that piece of shit gramophone you salvaged from the alley. Moonlight Serenade. You tripped over your own stupid feet and fell face first into me. I think that was the first time we kissed."

_Steve's fingers felt bony between his, the hand at the small of his back shaking and uncertain. Those big blue eyes looked up at him in utter embarrassment; his cheeks were rapidly going from pink to red. 'Shit, Buck, I'm so sorry-'_

"You said someone needed to keep the dames in dance partners with you gone."

Steve's tone has become warmer, much less clinical; Bucky's mind isn't on trial anymore. There's a large hand carding through his tangled hair, and Bucky leans into it, something akin to pride swelling in his chest. Though they've been doing this ritual for months now, each time he passes, he's still amazed at what he can recall.

"On your feet, soldier. There's something I want to give you."

Bucky makes a face. He doesn't move.

"Is it a shot of whiskey?"

There's a hard but playful slap to his shoulder. His real shoulder.

"No, you insufferable moron. Just get up and come into the kitchen."

* * *

"-Bucky. My name is Bucky."

The man nods, as if he already knew.

"It's nice to meet you, Bucky. C'mon in, honey: it's safe now."

A woman, presumably his wife, appears with a tray in her arms; her daughter shyly clings to her skirt, watching Bucky with wide eyes. A plate is set in his lap, and a steaming mug of coffee is pressed into his hands.

"Eat, then sleep. You'll need your strength for your trip back home," the man says, pulling his daughter into his lap and bouncing her on his knee. Her eyes remain fixed on the man with the metal arm lying on the couch.

Bucky's heart sinks, and he pauses mid sip.

"You didn't call the cops, did you?"

The man laughs, and his wife chuckles, albeit a bit nervously.

"No, son. We called the man who used to live here."

He gestures to the tags hanging around Bucky's neck, pointing to the third line: the next of kin line. The breath catches in his throat; he nearly chokes on his coffee. His heart soars.

* * *

"Dog tags?"

He gives Steve a puzzled and somewhat irritated look, and the blond rolls his eyes, clearly not interested in putting up with his shit today.

"Hold still and let me put them on you."

Bucky squirms out of Steve's impressive grip.

"We're not in the army anymore, Rogers: I don't have to wear that bullshit."

"You don't have to, but I _want_ you to. Please? For me?"

Steve pouts, and he makes a show of it, sticking out his lower lip and everything. _Damn those big puddly eyes._ Bucky holds still with a resigned sigh, allowing his friend to drape the chain around his neck.

"Only because I like you. If you were anybody else, I'd take your head off."

Steve flashes him an award winning smile, the same smile that made him famous, the same smile he'd given him when he'd pulled his friend from isolation in that HYDRA shithole, and Bucky thinks his heart might have stopped for a few seconds.

"Just keep them on, will you? They're a safety measure, just like the three things we do every morning. If you ever lose yourself, all you have to do is look down."

Oh. Still practical. _Except that instead of the army looking for me, I'll be looking for my own dead self,_ Bucky thinks. It irks him that none of this weird shit bothers him anymore. He can't come up with a witty retort, so he doesn't; instead, he takes the shiny metallic rectangles in between his fingers and carefully reads the etch.

"569 Leaman Place? Stevie, I don't know if you know this, but we don't live there anymore."

The look Steve gives him makes his heart swell with pride again. The captain is clearly impressed.

"I know we don't, but I couldn't put the address of the Avengers headquarters. This is a place only you and I know. Don't worry, the current residents know to expect you."

Bucky's eyebrows shoot up so high he's afraid they've escaped his forehead. _Current residents? As in random citizens?_

"So it's totally okay with you that _the Winter Soldier_ could show up, armed and dangerous, on some poor schmucks' doorstep?"

Steve scowls.

"That won't happen. I trust you, Buck."

"But do you trust _him_?"

Steve remains silent, but the hard look in those steely blue eyes tells Bucky that the conversation is over. He'll wear the tags whether he likes it or not.

* * *

Hours pass. Bucky consumes his entire plate of meatloaf and mashed potatoes, though it takes him an hour and a half to do so. He knows if he eats too fast, he'll be sick; besides, there's something about regaling this kind family with his war stories in between small bites that makes that feeling of pride rise in his chest again. Steve would be so proud of what he's remembered, and all because of the stupid dog tags around his neck. Once he finishes his plate, the wife insists that he sleep; he wants to help with the dishes and she's having none of it, and she orders the dog to sit on his chest until he falls asleep. She eagerly complies, watching the soldier with glee in her shiny black eyes. Full and safe and warm and pinned down by a happily panting dog, Bucky does something he's almost never done: he surrenders, and drops off into a deep sleep.

When he wakes up, it's only because he hears a knock at the front door, followed by the enthusiastic barking of the german shepherd. On alert, he jerks his head up, only to be eased back against the pillow by the child's small hands on his sallow cheeks.

"It's okay. Captain America is here to take you home," she says very matter-of-factly.

Bucky relaxes, not knowing what else to do. He's notoriously shit with kids, and doing time as a well-honed assassin did nothing to improve that aspect of his persona. Dozens of thoughts race through his head like a train through the snow of the Swiss Alps: _will he be upset with me? Where is he gonna take me? Where is home now? I don't even know how long I've been gone. Fuck, do I stink? I must stink, it's been over a week since I've showered-_

"Bucky."

That familiar voice quiets his thoughts, and he looks up to meet Steve's intense blue gaze. 

He doesn't look mad; he doesn't look upset at all, really. More than anything, Steve looks tired and so, so grateful. Though the girl had called him Captain America, he wasn't wearing the suit, but rather a well-worn leather jacket and faded blue jeans — though he does have the shield dutifully strapped to his forearm. Clearly he was anticipating some sort of trouble. _He'll be surprised to know that he'll get none,_ Bucky thinks as he gives his friend a lopsided grin.

"Hey, Stevie."

The look Steve gives him is unreadable. He shifts his attention to the husband and wife, thanking them profusely for taking good care of his escaped friend. He takes the time to briefly explain the night Bucky lost himself to the couple, and Steve begins wildly gesticulating and giving away just how Irish his heritage is. Bucky quietly waits his turn; when Steve is in the spotlight, it's his job to sit back and make sure all is as it should be.

When Steve returns his attention to his friend, his gaze is fearsome — it would put the fear of God into any self-respecting HYDRA agent. Something in Bucky recoils: the remnants of the wolf at the door to his mind retreating into the darkness.

"Three things."

Bucky grins. He's been waiting for this.

"Hey, Rogers: remember after your mom died and you tried to turn me down? We sat out on the fire escape and fought about it for hours until it got dark and you got too cold and too sick to keep arguing." Bucky glances over towards the fire escape, conjuring up the ghost of his former self and a much tinier Steve shivering against him. "We went inside and got together all the pillows and blankets and whatever warm clothes we had, and we laid on the couch with all of them, and it was so uncomfortable because there wasn't enough room and you were so damn bony and-"

"Alright, Buck, that's enough."

Steve's smiling. He offers a hand to his friend, and Bucky takes it happily, letting Steve help him off the couch. The dog tags clink against each other as he moves, and Steve glances down at them before fixing his partner with a pointed, decidedly smug but clearly happy look.

_If you lose yourself, all you have to do is look down._

Steve had been right. Bucky will never admit it to his face.

 

 

 


End file.
